


A River Dark And Deep

by xathira



Series: Prince of the Unknown [7]
Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Beast Wirt, Freeform, Nightmare, Other, Prince!Wirt AU, Transformation, Zalgo text has entered the chat, a whole bunch of hot fresh exposition, monstrous tendancies, otgw - Freeform, slight body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 19:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21258632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xathira/pseuds/xathira
Summary: Choosing to be better isn't making Wirt more human.  A dark spot in the Unknown and tea with a stranger fail to answer all his questions.It's starting to look like there's no way out of this.





	1. 🙞The Touch of a Beast🙜

**Author's Note:**

> Open wide, exposition train coming your way. This takes place after "Good Deeds." We're almost back to the present.

“Greg… wait… I’m coming…”

Ramblings of a burnt-out teenager splayed beneath the arms of a venerable chestnut tree. The shadows upon his lower lids are darker than usual. He’s wrapped himself tightly in his cloak, knees pulled up to his chest, and a few animals watching would like to help warm their kindly lord but the abrupt unexpected snarls that shudder from him as he dreams startle them too much.

“I… I found the way home…” A low growl that would make more sense coming from a wolf scratches past Wirt’s grinding teeth. His face grimaces and his eyes roll behind pinched lids. Another kicked-dog noise mixes with his human groaning and then he jolts awake, gasping as if he’s sprinted ten miles.

Just another nightmare, one that leaves him more exhausted than he was before he fell asleep. Nothing more.

Redeeming himself through clandestine philanthropy is rewarding enough that Wirt rarely ever starts weeping for no good reason, as he did in the nascent days of his Beastdom. Each generous act, done simply because he can, proves something important to him—and Wirt swears that wherever the Woodsman has lugged the Lantern, his flame dances a little brighter. At least, for a moment. One sweet starburst of satisfaction, contentment, instead of sorrow.

Unfortunately, the giddy rush of good deeds gradually wears off. Wirt still strives to plant kindness into this abysmal purgatory, but he tires quickly, wilting into secretive spots to rest as he waits for his heart to stop skipping like the waning flame of his soul trapped far, far away. His weary mind untethers itself accidentally while he sleeps… awareness shuffling from one dream to the next, scenes offered up by the distant woods, animals and people who still need his help. He slumbers restlessly, because there are _so many_ things that need to be fixed, so many lives barely scraping by, and they all converge to form a hallway that Wirt runs and runs down but he can’t keep up. _Hold on. I’ll be right there. I’m doing my best…_

_I’ll be right there, Greg. I promise._

His entire body aches with the effort of pushing himself. Something akin to growing pains shoot through his limbs. Wirt tosses, turns, moans. The moon rises and sets. He sleeps through a whole day, then another, and then blearily cracks open his eyes because suddenly his skeleton has stopped hurting and that must mean it’s time to play Friendly Neighborhood Beast again.

He scrubs at his bleary face with his knuckles. Flicks his wrist, because he must have accidentally clutched a fistful of twigs in his sleep. Only, those aren’t twigs, they’re attached to his fingers, attached to his _hand,_ and Wirt is extending his arms out in front of his body as far as he can stretch them and his lungs are constricting and when he wiggles his digits the twigs wiggle too and he’s choking, choking on a scream—

The Beast faints at the sight of his own claws.

🙞 ------------------------- 🙜

At least the birds still like him.

Wirt hunches under a bushel of mistletoe and gazes balefully at the disfigured remnants of his once perfectly-human hands. A mated cardinal pair has chosen to sit on the ring and index finger of his left ghastly talon. They cock their heads at his mute distress, unsure why The Caretaker is so upset when he has these lovely perches for them to use.

Bile churns in Wirt’s gut. He wants to bite through the polished bark that’s overtaken his flesh. 

“What fresh daunting curse is this,” he mutters, queasy. With his bird-free claw, he draws back the sleeve of his opposite arm so he can inspect the damage. Spots dance before his eyes. “Oh, _god,_ I’m gonna be sick. Ohhhh my god, oh no…”

Sooty bark armors his wrist and plates his forearm up to the elbow. At that joint, it sinks under his skin, etched into a map of delicate roots. Its pattern whorls and knobs just like a branch. Just like the antlers jutting proudly from his temples. 

“_Monstrous without and within,/ Accursed flesh grafted in sin/ Nevermore a kindly touch, blacken’d…_” Wirt’s endeavors in goodness, in maintaining his humanity, are failing. A flashbulb memory of the first Beast’s true form—unspeakably hideous, a tower of faces twisted in torment, Edelwood animated by death and misery—explodes behind his eyes and Wirt has to dip his head between his knees as best he can, panting shallowly. The cardinals flit off to give him some privacy while he fights not to puke. 

“Why… why like _this?_ When will it end?” He hiccups out the first half of a sob… and chases the broken noise by arching his back with a roar that would put a grizzly to shame, hands grappling his antlers as if to wrench them off. What is so wrong about wanting to look like himself? The feral bellow crescendos until Wirt’s empty lungs stick together like wet paper and his claws slump lifelessly into the snow, segmented palms facing upward in defeat.

🙞 ------------------------- 🙜

“Maybe I’m not trying hard enough… doing enough…” Wirt rambles to himself as he marches feverishly onward, deadly hooks-for-fingers tying themselves in knots while he worries. His panic bleeds into his surroundings and the temperature plummets, blowing in spitting bouts of snowfall and striking up frosty dervishes that swirl briefly through the trees. He already has _antlers._ These talons strike him as downright unfair, a punishment... or perhaps a test? _That_ gives him pause. Doesn’t the story’s hero always encounter obstacles on his magnificent journey?

The Unknown ultimately wants Wirt to fit the role he occupies. It seeks to change him. Mold him. But Wirt doesn’t have to roll over and submit. He’s different from the previous Beast. He _is._ He has to be. He won’t let the Unknown reward his sacrifice with indignation after indignation. He’s got things to do and lives to improve...

First, though, he’s going to sulk next to a wide, clear river, moving only to hurl pebbles into the glass-smooth surface with the ungodly rakes attached to the ends of his arms. “Stupid Lantern. Stupid curse. Stupid branch...arm...things.” Shockingly, he can feel just as well with his fancy bark-carved fingers as he could with his fleshy human stubs. He tests the polished surface of a rock and flings it savagely away. “Here you go, Beast,” he grates out. “Not like you needed those dumb old hands anyway. Can’t play clarinet anymore but hot _darn_ could you strangle the ever-loving crap out of somebody...”

A wailing cry for help jerks Wirt’s focus down the water’s sluggish flow. The next pebble he holds drops unceremoniously to the bank and he’s running, picking up momentum as the terrain jags downward like a giant staircase, the river alongside him dripping into numerous chiming falls. It splashes back into itself—a silver ribbon—when Wirt hits level ground. He stills, listening with his ears and the waiting woods. Another terrified shout spurs him back into pursuit. There’s someone stuck in the current—he sees through the rushing water, the branches bridged overhead—and although Wirt has been wearing his Halloween costume since the first snowflake and can’t succumb to hypothermia _this person can_ and he knows he has mere moments to make a difference.

Ahead: it’s a boy, not much younger than Wirt himself. He’s draped limply against a boulder jutting from the deepest section of the river. A laceration on his forehead bleeds freely. His teeth are chattering and his body is frozen numb and a whisper in Wirt thinks _let go, it would be easy to let go, float down the river and let the water take you, let your body tangle in the roots._

“Ha-hang in there! I’m coming for you!” The kid’s bleak stare scans the forest for whoever’s hollering at him and when it falls on Wirt a quaver of undiluted fear blights the river. “It’s all right,” Wirt insists, holding out his hands in a nonthreatening gesture… and then letting his hands fall to his sides with an exasperated sigh, because there is no possible way to make his ugly buzzard’s mitts appear anything but horrifying. “I’m going to help you. Just—just don’t let go, okay? I’m _not_ going to hurt you…”

One foot in the river. Instantly his shoe is waterlogged, and trying to take another step is like lifting a rock tied to his ankles. Wirt tears off both shoes—and then his cloak—and wades in barefoot. Cold plasters every inch of his skin. His bones are icicles. But he can withstand the should-be-fatal agony as if it’s no worse than a static shock. His toes grip the smooth stones below the surface… and when he wades out farther thick aquatic plants unfurl form their mire-beds and secure his lower limbs.

“L-leave me al-l-lone,” mumbles the injured boy. Death swirls around him, within the dragging current, and Wirt bites his lip until he tastes his own black blood. The Beast is submerged up to his waist. Then his shoulders. Then his neck.

The stranger has shut his eyes and hidden his face against the boulder he feebly clings to. Another gash wets the back of his skull, matting the dark wooly curls with lurid clots. _He got banged up pretty bad,_ Wirt worries. _Serious injuries. Trauma to sap his strength… feed the roots…_

Wirt aggressively shakes his head. One of his claws is outstretched toward the kid, all the boy has to do is reach back and take hold—

Unconsciousness snips the tension from the stranger’s arms and he whooshes below the water. 

A sound akin to an elk’s panicked bugle wrenches from Wirt’s ribs. He dives into the stygian current.

The kid’s silhouette sweeps away fast as the flick of a fish’s tail. Wirt slashes toward him, slowed by the weight of his antlers, so he commands the water-plants that assisted him before to save the boy. They form a spongy collender that catches the ragdoll body until The Beast can scoop it into his bark-clad arms. 

Animals have crowded the riverbank, called by the urgent struggles of their lord. Liquid snap-freezes on Wirt’s soaked clothes as soon as he sloshes onto dry land, tracing frosted fern-patterns. He stumbles to his knees, almost dropping the kid, and after a beat a pair of timid deer press in and sandwich Wirt and his charge between their warm tawny bodies One doe carries Wirt’s discarded cloak in her mouth; Wirt retrieves it to wrap up the blacked-out boy. 

Wirt trembles fiercely, yet the half-drowned stranger is deathly still. The pulse fluttering under his clammy skin won’t last much longer. 

An avaricious hum slithers through the soil. Wirt abruptly stands, taking the boy with him, before any Edelwood tendrils can snare their meal. “We have to take him to shelter,” says The Caretaker. The deer stand—one consenting to carry the stranger—and begin walking behind Wirt as the Unknown points him where he wants to go.


	2. 🙞 Tea Time🙜

The more distance they cover, the more Wirt experiences a _vileness_ that has nothing to do with his vague compulsions to claim the stranger as part of his forest. He and his doe companions do not slow their progress, but they do huddle closer together as if protecting one another from hidden predators. “Not much farther now,” Wirt reassures his party, despite the silence of their only human. “I hope.” 

The first obvious sign that something is very, very wrong flows in the river. It’s current warps from diamond-clear to a murky smog, its surface glistening with a greasy sheen. Even the ice stacked by the banks is grey. In less than a mile, the unsightly water slows to a stop… it is less river and more swollen, fetid swamp, and the diverse forest that Wirt has grown accustomed to is suddenly nothing but Edelwood.

No birdsong trills in the boughs. No scuff of animals underground disturbs the stillness. The atmosphere presses down as suffocating and foreboding as a funeral pall. Wirt breathes heavily, irregularly, drunk on the toxic presence of the Edelwood grove. He belongs here. This forest is more his, more _him,_ than the innocent woods beyond. These are _his_ glorious trees, _his_ cache of precious oil, and he’s gulping in the luxurious smoke-and-bourbon aroma like a drowning man, mouth watering, a multilayered purr vibrating his vocal cords…

A deer’s muzzle bumps his lower back. The Beast cups her snout in one hand and salivates over the unmoving body supported on her back. _An offering for me… another sweet seed for the orchard._ The doe buffets him with her nose again; fear shows in the whites of her eyes and in her sisters’ and they’re staring at The Beast as if they don’t know who he is—

“À̘̻̯̹̰Ḧ̳̻̥́͂̂ͨH͔̤͈̘̺̱͂ͦͤ̊̃!”

It can’t be Wirt’s voice, because it clangs with the timbres of _many_ voices and the volume rings too loud in his ears. “S̘̒o̦͌r̲͗r̞̄y͈, I’m so sorry, I didn’t m͎̅e̦̚a̱͋n̗̑ ̬̂i̽ͅt̐͜…” Words going in and out like radio static. He withdraws his claws and hugs himself until the hooks of his fingers dig into his upper arms and thanks the god he no longer believes in that the deer stand rigid and frightened instead of galloping off. “We’re almost there. Please help me… I’ll keep it together this time.” 

Civilization lies outside the Edelwood grove. If they can cut through before the dying kid’s heart stops for good then he’ll be saved.

“Come on. Faster. We can make it.”

The smells of people living together—smoke from their fires, their domesticated animals, food and alcohol—weave thicker into the shadows. Sunset is almost over, and the sky above is a marbled palette of cobalt and emerald green where those last few rays spear the clouds. A small sob of relief leaps from Wirt’s mouth when he spots a lantern’s glow bouncing off the Edelwood. Hoofbeats accompany the cheerful light. A search party perhaps, searching for the kid?

He should run to them. Shout for help. Explain the situation. But Wirt doesn’t move. His pulse hammers on either side of his trachea and his mouth dries to sandpaper because he’s not ready for more than one person to see him yet, not ready to interact and pretend as if he possesses at least an iota of humanity, he’s _never_ been good in front of crowds and if he scares these approaching people away then the young stranger he rescued is truly as good as a corpse.

The two does have also frozen. The coppery stench of their terror hits the back of Wirt’s tongue.

“Shoot—_shoot_—what do I do?” Wirt yammers frantically under his breath. At last he cautiously scoops the kid’s stiff body off the deer’s back and arranges him on a thatch of dead leaves kept dry under a massive Edelwood’s limbs. The deer don’t need another reason to bolt; as soon as Wirt stands back up they take off into the night, ghostly white tails bobbing in the air.

Wirt’s voice cracks into nothingness the first time he calls for help. He tries again, more force behind his diaphragm, and again, urgent and strong. The faraway lantern and thud of hooves careens toward him. Heart in his throat, Wirt orders himself to stay just long enough for one of the riders to capture the brilliant gleam of his beastly eyes.

Men yell to one another and increase their pace on foot and on horseback. Wirt ducks into the forest, agile as a deer himself, and hides behind an Edelwood moments before the group rides close enough to see the unconscious body bundled under the disquieting tree.

“Look… the lad isn’t becoming an Edelwood.”

“Still alive, then?”

One man dismounts to check the boy’s pulse. He gives an affirmative nod. “The forest hasn’t taken him. Bring him back to the lodge and warm him up.”

Wirt could dip himself into the grove to watch what happens from the branches… but he has no desire to let his awareness brush with all that hopelessness more than it already has. He exhales when the men hoist the kid into a saddle, away from where greedy roots can reach him. It’s a shame to lose his cloak, although it isn’t as if Wirt needs it. Compared to the cold of his missing soul, this bleak winter climate is nothing.

The search party exits. Wirt counts to one hundred before stepping out from behind his Edelwood shield, unsure if he should go follow up on the kid he rescued or if it would be okay to entrust his care to the grown men…

“Lord Beast? Is that you?”

Wirt’s spine jolts ramrod straight. His stare swivels over his shoulder to see the man who’d checked the kid for life still standing out in the snow, as composed as if it is broad daylight and Wirt is an old friend he thought he recognized. Not screaming in fear or hatred. Not running to save his hide or fainting on the spot. There’s wariness, sure, an uncertain tension, yet Wirt expects to be met with a dramatic reaction more appropriate for the situation. He _is_ The Beast, nowadays.

“Yes. No. S-sort of…” He gulps. “I… t-took the first Beast’s place. So yeah, I’m ‘The Beast,’ but I’m not, you know… the original one. I’m not going to turn you into a tree, or anything. Aren’t you… afraid of me?”

Each syllable feels like a bomb ticking down to the moment this oddly calm man will explode. This guy is tall, _really_ tall, with sharply sculpted aristocratic features and flawlessly tailored Puritan clothes and a meticulously cultivated beard. He’s intimidatingly put-together. Wirt literally has no idea what to do with himself. He never in his wildest, most wistful dreams would have thought his first major meeting with a human being would go this… quietly. It makes him sick with anxiety. He’d go back in time and read all his poems to Sara _instantly_ if it meant getting out of this unnatural conversation. 

“Are you… will that guy be okay? The one I—the one your search party found under the tree? I wasn’t sure what to do… I didn’t want to let him freeze to death out here.”

An eternity seems to go by wherein the man simply studies Wirt as if Wirt is a sculpture and not a living thing. “No,” he mutters after Wirt believes he will actually die from mortification. “You are quite clearly not the original Beast. Yours is a gentler soul, isn’t it?”

Wirt has no response to that observation that isn’t meaningless babble. He shrugs, palms up in an “I have no idea” gesture. Is he dreaming right now? Did he knock himself out in the river and start vividly hallucinating?

“We’ll do what we can for the boy. In the meantime, young buck, you look as if you could use some help yourself. Come back to the lodge. You can tell me your tale over a cup of tea.”

And just like that, the man turns away and starts marching off, footsteps tracing the prints left behind by the horseback riders. He obviously expects Wirt to follow him, even though Wirt is currently gaping like a fish flopped onto land. The flabbergasted Beast holds up his hands to ensure they’re still hideous rakes. He feels out the span of his branching antlers. Either this man is insane, or he’s lived to witness enough that the sight of a teenage Beast tangling his own tongue does not faze him.

Wirt claps his jaw shut and—after wrestling a worm of doubt—goes after the stranger. Something tells him it would be foolish to squander this chance at reconnecting with the civilized world.

🙞 ------------------------- 🙜

The lodge is a large, well-built cabin, two stories tall and built on a hill overlooking the sprawling town of Duchurch below—the biggest town Wirt has come across in the Unknown. A somber mood sits on the place like a brooding bird in spite of the orange hue of firelight warming the windows. A black feather has been branded on the lodge’s main door, as long as Wirt is tall.

“The symbol of our coven,” the man relays to Wirt. The Beast, who’d been shuffling warily behind his new acquaintance, pauses his stride and jerks his head up. 

“Coven? You’re…”

“A warlock. One of five in the Ater Oleum coven. We’ve fifteen witches, so twenty members in all.” The stranger does not turn around as he unlocks the lodge’s main door, does not change his conversational tone, or give any sign that what he’s just revealed is anything other than perfectly normal. But it’s _not_ normal—Wirt recalls the burn of yarn binding his limbs and Adelaide threatening to stuff his head with wool and his eyes blaze painfully white. He’d just delivered a helpless _kid_ into the clutches of witches! Of all the _stupid,_ careless, awful mistakes—

“Ẉ̂h͚͛a̲̍t͉̅ ̭a̦̚r͍ḛ̽ ̛̼ỷ̭ö̹ṷ̽ ̩̎g̹͋ỏ͜i̇ͅṋ͋g̟̐ ̨̂t̲͘o̯̓ ͚̇ḑ̏o͎̐ ̳̄w̞̋ḯ̥t͇̋h̲̏ ̖̓ẗ̯́h͖̅a̟͘t͓̚ ̨̐ḃ̬o̹̚y͈̆?̯͠” A fiendish snarl splinters Wirt’s voice into fifty different shades of threat. If the kid isn’t safe—if the witches have already finished what the river started—then he’s going to use these dandy talons to shred them all to pieces small enough for the songbirds to swallow. 

The warlock finally peers back at him, an eyebrow raised as if Wirt has just said something mildly offensive. “My brethren have already set the child up in a room, I’m sure, and changed him into some dry clothing. This wouldn’t be our first run-in with a frostbite victim. I can’t promise that he will keep all his fingers and toes, or that he won’t catch a nasty cold, but he _will_ live. Isn’t that what you wanted, young buck?”

Wirt concentrates on breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth and pummeling his monster-reaction into submission. “Y̛̹ḙ̛ş̇.̻̕ I apologize… I thought that…” 

“That we were going to eat him?” Amusement oils the warlock’s question. He’s stepped past the threshold and waits: a silent invitation for Wirt to follow him inside. “Being a witch does not make one evil, just as being The Beast, or whatever you call yourself, does not make _you_ evil. You _aren’t_ evil, are you?” 

Wirt shoves the instinct to rip human beings to ribbons way deep down where the moonlight can’t reach it. Auntie Whispers was a witch, he grudgingly admits, and she hadn’t struck him as evil. “No. No, I’m not.” And his eyes cycle back to the blue of forget-me-nots. 

“Will you join me inside, then?”

Panic seizes Wirt. The Edelwood forest revolts and seduces him but the thought of walking into the lodge makes him picture walking into a cage. He should want to tread over the exquisite rugs draped over the lodge’s sleek wooden floors and chase away winter’s chill by the fireplace and maybe go find where the kid is recovering yet he hovers just outside the square of light beaming from the open door. 

The warlock purses his lips. “I have a compromise. Meet me by the west window, if you would still like that tea.”

Wirt humbly complies, circling around to where the stranger opens a sash for him to lean into; with his bare feet touching snow and his face kissed by the lodge’s warmth it’s just the right amount of being “indoors.”

🙞 ------------------------- 🙜

“So, you rescued that boy? Out in the Black River?”

“Y-yeah. I heard him shouting for help, so…” Wirt’s modesty makes the words dry up and he ducks his gaze, talons uncomfortably scratching the back of his head. “What was I supposed to do? Let him drown?”

The warlock—his name, Wirt learns, is Silas Fell—reclines in a velvet-upholstered chair near the window, poised as can be; his expression remains impassive the whole time he and Wirt converse. Even when he returns Wirt’s cloak back through the open window, he’s as casual as someone dropping off a parcel at the post office. “Well. That’s what the original Beast would have done.” 

“I’m not the original Beast,” snaps Wirt. Then he smooths his hackles, embarrassed at his outburst. “I’m…”

All the significant titles Enoch piled on him. The heartfelt name the animals picked for him. He was The Pilgrim before he blew out the Lantern and he hesitates to reveal himself as “Wirt.” What _will_ he call himself?

“Confused, young buck?” muses the warlock. “You don’t need to decide on a name for yourself just yet. We can chat just fine. More tea?”

Wirt forgets to demure and is nodding absently, turning his face in the direction of a kettle’s whistle. Silas Fell glides around a corner into the kitchen and returns with two cups balanced upon saucers decorated with finely painted ravens. The tea is steaming, fragrant, dark as bramblewine with an extremely faint yet delicious scent that strikes Wirt as familiar… he touches his lips gingerly to the teacup’s rim and attempts to discern all these complex flavors without scalding his tongue. “Th-thank you. I haven’t had tea in…”

His voice closes. He swallows hard around a lump that won’t go down and is all at once using every last shred of his concentration not to cry. Mr. Fell has the tact to gaze pensively into the fireplace while Wirt composes himself. When tears stop gathering on Wirt’s lashes the warlock breezes on.

“May I ask when The Beast made you his heir?”

Horror slugs Wirt in the navel—both at being called that devil’s “heir” and also because he realizes it’s been… “Months ago. St-start of the winter.” 

“And does the original Beast still haunt these woods?”

“No. He…” _He’s dead. I killed him._ “He isn’t around, anymore. It’s just m-me.”

Mr. Fell gives him a grave look. “That must be very lonely for you.”

How should Wirt decipher that? “Were you and the first Beast… on good terms?” Adelaide had done the monster’s bidding; Whispers had warned Wirt and Greg to beware him. Wirt wants to believe that someone who offered him a hot drink and who helped bring the half-drowned kid into shelter instead of offering him as a sacrifice isn’t a bad guy. He apprehensively clutches his teacup and inspects Mr. Fell’s face.

“The Beast did not directly associate with the Ater Oleum coven, and we have always had more pressing matters to attend to than tea time with the Horned Demon. We’ve devoted our lives to protecting the town of Duchurch from the perils of the Edelwood forest.”

“Wouldn’t The Beast be the most dangerous thing out here? Are all those Edelwoods… are they all citizens of Duchurch?” Who on _earth_ would want to live near a mass grave? The original Beast must have hunted here tirelessly, preying on the townspeople season after season after season. A vicious cycle of despair. “What’s with this place, anyway? There’s so much death, and... it’s as if everything here is _sick._”

Mr. Fell nods in agreement. He graciously tops off Wirt’s teacup without Wirt needing to ask. “I’m afraid it’s always been that way here. It may be this way forever. It is a system that feeds off itself.” The warlock stacks his cup on its saucer so he can lace his fingers together. “The Edelwoods' roots form a network under the earth, even under the Black River. It’s their oil that stains the water. Wildlife stays clear of it… except the turtles. Perhaps reptiles are immune to the oil’s taint.”

The shy Beast sips his tea thoughtfully and remembers the night at the Grist Mill, when he and Greg had first met the Woodsman. “What happens if a predator eats one of the turtles?”

Mr. Fell gives him a look that suggests Wirt should already know. “The same thing that happens if _any_ creature ingests the oil, whether they drink from the river or chew the Edelwood bark. They transform into horrors and go mad, attacking anything that moves. It is rare in the warmer months, but it happens often enough and with such devastating consequences that my coven has made it our mission to protect nearby towns in case of… an adverse event. Winter is different. Animals are hungry. Desperate. Those make the worst monsters when they turn.” The warlock sighs and stirs a cube of sugar into his drink. “The townspeople know that living so near an Edelwood forest is risky, but most of them have been in Duchurch for generations. It is more convenient for them to avert their eyes and deal with danger as it comes to them, rather than being proactive.”

Gears are turning in Wirt’s head. Here is a problem in need of a solution—something only The Beast can fix. He cannot control animals like puppets (not that he’s seriously tried to, or would _want_ to) but he could firmly suggest that they stay out of the Edelwood grove—and steer clear of the weird black turtles. It would be nice if there wasn’t a dense thicket of Edelwood polluting this part of the Unknown in the first place… 

It chills Wirt to wonder why so many lost souls gave up _right here._

He stares into his teacup, the fire of his eyes reflected back from the nebulous brew. “Is it difficult living somewhere so choked with despair? I’d think that all the ghosts of lives ended in melancholy would disturb even a witch.”

“We witches are linked to the Edelwood, same as you, young buck,” Fell responds calmly. “We’re a bit like the turtles, I suppose… we can touch the oil’s power and yet retain our sanity. It does not warp us as it does mortals.” He’s watching Wirt carefully from over the rim of his teacup. “We alone have the ability to vanquish the monsters born of the Edelwood. That responsibility does not make living here more _comfortable,_ of course… but there are things more important than one’s comfort.”

Why does it feel as if the warlock is directing that statement at _Wirt?_

The callow Beast sets teacup on the windowsill with a clatter. Everything—his treacherous changing body, the gaping abyss where his soul should be, the bitter cold of winter, the half-drowned boy, witches in a graveyard with trees for tombstones—everything suckerpunches Wirt at once and he sags in the window frame, groaning his exhaustion. He cannot see the Lantern himself but he bets his spirit-flame is barely more than a guttering spark. Standing here in the Edelwood Forest is akin to holding himself from a banquet he’s forbidden from tasting, tempting aromas and flavors that tantalize him to the point of frenzy. Hunger pangs wring his stomach; the energy required to hold his lanky body upright is fading, fading fast…

“Young buck? Are you alright?”

Wirt nods woodenly. “Yes. Just… tired. Very tired.” He senses himself sinking downward—not just his body, but his mind, unwillingly entering the plane of the Unknown where his dreams are too vivid and his consciousness is spread through moonlight. “Thank you for talking to me like I'm... like it's normal. I should get going.”

“Please, spend the night here. We have a spare room, a change of clothes… I bet you have more questions. I certainly do.”

Wirt is shaking his head, backing away so he doesn’t hit his antlers against the cabin. “You’re too kind. But I must digress… I’d much rather… st-stay out here.”

He hears Fell cajoling him as though the older man is mumbling from underwater. Wirt stumbles into the darkness, away from the cabin’s soft candlelight glow, fighting the tug that wants to submerge him. As long as he keeps putting one foot in front of the other, as long as he maintains this pace, he can be out of this damned forest and into the clean beautiful woods outside it before...


	3. 🙞Dark Mirror🙜

Wirt has enough presence of mind to look for the kid before he passes out. He shimmies up a towering Edelwood that rises twice the lodge’s height into the heavens so he can spy into the right room (it takes him three tries to select _this_ tree to climb on and _this_ window to press his nose against). The sphere of anxiety over the kid’s safety deflates when, sure enough, Wirt finds him sleeping deeply under several artfully stitched quilts with a still-steaming mug of tea at his bedside. 

“Thank goodness,” Wirt breathes. And then plummets from the branch he’s perched on. 

The Edelwood tries its best to catch him—boughs rustling to break his fall—but before Wirt’s limp frame crashes to the ground it’s snatched into his sleepwalking world: the bodiless plane where he becomes the icicles dripping off twigs and the old bones of animals buried underground.

Without his physical shell’s exhaustion, Wirt lurches wide awake. He howls a blizzard squall that herds clouds in front of the moon. His heart is stuck in the mire of the Edelwood grove, suffocating in its tar-pit of darkness, its festering sadness, and this is worse than anything Wirt has experienced before and he howls again in denial of what is happening to him.

This terror is _real._ It slices his flesh, carving clarity into every one of his senses so that the world’s sharpness cuts him with detail, his awareness spilling into everything and Wirt cannot stop it, cannot clot himself and prevent his mind from leaking through the wounds the forest wrenches into him. Nature seizes control of each individual nerve ending. The Unknown is dissecting him. Pulling him apart. Stretching Wirt to the point of breaking and pinning him helplessly within the dead leaves and skeletal branches, mud and stone, snow-gorged rivers and endless sky. 

He trembles, and the entire forest shivers as if buffeted by a nonexistent wind. He cries for it to stop, not again, and his voice is lost in the creak of wood and the splintering snap of ice. 

_ Y͜o͝u ţo̧ok̸ th͘i͡s fr͝om me͘.͢ _

Something is here with him. A kind of rigor mortis seizes Wirt’s consciousness. The Unknown holds its breath in the tautness of his lungs.

_Who’s there?_ A sudden stillness so complete that not one single animal dares stir in its den. Wirt twists in his prison, nauseated by all the _everything_ he can see, taste, smell, feel, hear. But whatever spoke to him isn’t out there in the wintry wood.

It’s skittering up where Wirt’s vertebrae should be. Exhaling against his nape. Jabbing the tips of needle-pointed talons into his shoulder.

_ My̛ ̛cr͠o͜wn͠.͡ ͞My k҉i͢ng̸dom̕.̶ ͘ ͞ _

The presence digs in harder. Wirt yelps, thrashes, but it is stronger than he is—it is _glad_ to sink itself into the Unknown like a second skin—and as its malevolent will subsumes Wirt’s he catches a reflection of azure-gold-rose reflected in his frantic thoughts. 

Ṣ̡̹̣͆̋̾̕h̨͎̖͈̊̓̈͠a̭͍̠̥͗̇̓̈́l̻͓͚̠̔̅̓̒l͔̝̱͐̓̆͝ͅ ̨̗̮̏̇̈́͛ͅḬ̝̟͚̅̿̃͂ ̨̧͉͍̀̇̓̕s͇͍̬͚͌̇͘͝h̹̹̺̬̋͌͛ö̰̠̤͕́̈̔̕w̼̼̩̰̆̆̄̒ ͙̞͖̝̃̏̍̓ÿ̧̝͙̞́̄̔̃o̰̗͙͙̎̈́̋̋u̡̥̮̝̿̆̏̐ ̨̱͇̥̌̈́̐̂w͈̹͖̉̄͂͜h͎̲͎̫͐̾͐a͖̪͔̥͋̋̔̿t̛̞͓̖̹̾̽̑ ͍̮͎̙͛̌̓̐y̢̩̰͚͘͘͠õ̹̭̟͔̀̉͛u̱̦͈͖̍͂͒͠'̢̛̰͎͐̇͂͜v̛̩̻͎̦͛̈́̾e̠̤̟̗͊̂̇͝ ̩̭̩̩̃͋̾̋s̲̗͍̬͗̈́͘t͔͈̻̗́̾̆̃ö̺͕̗̤́̿̉͛l̛̟̩̣̻̈́͂͠ẹ͖̺̗͋̃͛̽n̡̦͍̳̔̎̅͝,͍̮͖͚͆̀̂͝ ̯̙̖͖͂͛͗ú̯͖̺̥̌̽s̡̥̱͙̃̊̓̊u͇̼̮͎̓̋̊̕ŕ̛͍̘̞͒͘ͅp̜̙̜̺̑̈́̾͝ḙ̻̟̈́̍̕ͅŗ̰͔̠͐̃̋̔?̨̝̤̈́̌̈́͂ͅ

Wirt’s scream rips through the canopy. He is bending in half under the pressure, vision cruelly directed to where the presence wants him to look as if jerked by a bridle. 

Groves of Edelwood extend themselves to him, boughs wrenched in supplication or regret. 

_ De͝͞sp̶̨a͡i̢̢͏r̵͢ ̛͠i̕͟s͡ ͡t̵͟h̴͠e҉̵ ̕͝s͢e͠e̷d̛ ̨t͘̕ha͜͏̶t̶͜ ͟f̴͝l̷ǫ̵ur̕͟i͠s̢h̢͏͞e҉s҉̧.̡͏ ͜ D̉͜o̥̓ ̢̀y͖̋o̙͑ũ͜ ̳̃k͉͑n̼̒ǒ̪w̼ ̡̍w̨͆h͕͌a̯͒ţ̿ ̗̈́m͈̋a̗̕k̝̔e͛ͅs̜̓ ̖̉i͔͒ț̄ ̻̉g̞̓r͍̍o̠͘w̭̃?̖̎ _

Wirt’s guts are turning inside out with how desperately he _wants needs craves_ the Edelwood. He strains to scrape his teeth on the sable bark so he can lick the dark black oil coagulated underneath because the despair of the Edelwood is so cold it makes him feel warm by comparison. The presence—the _original_ Beast, the _first_ Beast, it shouldn’t be possible but it _is_—locks its grip around Wirt’s scruff and slams him into the nearest trunk—

Wirt busts his face against the warped wooden veneer and yowls. Inky blood drips from his nose. Through the unexpected pain he realizes that he’s solid again, released from the forest. He pivots to push his back against the Edelwood, chest jumping erratically to match the gallop of his heart. “You’re dead,” he rasps. Black spills over his lips. “I killed you. You’re _dead._”

He scrubs his nose with his sleeve. Fights to time his inhales, exhales. And just as his adrenalin starts to dip the Unknown swallows him again.

Or, rather, the soul hiding behind the Unknown’s veil _hauls him under._

_W̧̲̩̫͊̏͆̂ḥ͓̣̝́̇̓͑a̬̘͚͈̍̓̃͠t̜͓̘̗̋̍̏͘ ̧̖̝̙͒̇̂͊f̛̹̹̥̦̋̓̽é̮͉̻̺͐̔͘ẹ̤̪̤͂̇̀͂d͎̺͎͕͑̈́͊͒ṡ̮̩̩͂̔͠ͅ ̠̝͎̗̑̋̒͠t̙̭͙̥͌̓͗̂h̨̥̝͔͛͌̃e̡̺͎̹͋̕ ̢̹̥̱̈́̈́̔̔E͕͕͓͕͊̊̍͝ḏ̮̻̆̈̐ͅe͙͓̙͉͊̉́͘ḽ̺͉͎̋̍̀w̧̹͖̦̾͗͒o̧̳͙̤̽̈́̿ö͇̙̹͖́̓̓̈́d͙̙̞͎͗̓̌̚,̰̩̼͕̈́̈́̊͝ ̹͙͙̭̔͊̓̚b̨̢͍̼̊͊̓̀ơ̮̜̬̳̅͋͒ȳ̡̩̝͔͑̾͘?̨̖͖̗̌̍_

Wirt’s predecessor shakes him like a wolf with a rabbit in its jaws. Wirt hurtles through space, pelted by starlight and snagged on the crowning twigs of trees. Again those glacial claws close around his neck. He’s smashed back into himself and to his knees within another ring of Edelwood…

A _wrongness_ assaults his instincts. Revulsion and yearning bubble up the back of his throat. An energy hums within this wicked circle that resonates with Wirt… or the part of Wirt that is also The Beast. He doesn’t have a moment to divorce himself from what he’s feeling before the smell reaches him and he’s gagging while also stumbling forward.

Bright blue light rounds a tortuous Edelwood trunk and illuminates a splash of red in the snow. Wirt’s blazing gaze trails upward and finds a sickening shape nailed to a tree—

The first Beast sighs longingly into Wirt’s skull.

_Ḇ̯̞̮͉͉͒̒̏̋͑͜͠͠ l̛̻̮͍̱̗̬̽̎̊̾̾ͅ ǫ̞̠̪̗̫̺͂͗̏̏͆͝͝ o̢̨̫̪̱̦̞̒́̔̃̎͛͝ d̮̲̗̮͙͇̈̈̈́͂̓́͜.̢̧̛̼̪̼̥̬̈̀̑͝͝_

Wirt screams until his voice shatters and his lungs implode and he flees _horrified grief-stricken and ill_ back into the oblivion of nature itself—into his eternal jail—right back into the arms of the demon. Its claws pierce his chest and grip his thundering heart and Wirt gasps and retches and thrashes. 

_W͕̄h͔̎a̧͊t͖͌ ̝̈́ą̅ ͉̚w̙̃e͙͊a̩̎k̳̎,̛͎ ͚̚p̧͊i̠̍t̙̚i̜̔f̱͘u͎̔l͇͠ ̪̽ḧ̹́e͈̚i̦̽r͖͆.̖͌_

Knives twisting into his chest. He’s going to die. He’s going to die, and The Beast will burst out of this plane and flood back into his Lantern and abandon Wirt to rot. 

_Y͍͗o͇̓ǘ̧ ͖̀w̨̾ë̢́r͓̉ȩ̕ ͎̋s̖͐ú͕p̗̿p͙o͖͂s̛̹e̥͌d̼̓ ̠͝t̢̑o̗ ̨͝b̘̕e̘ ̼̓m̦͝įṅ͍e̱͛.͔̕ ̠ ̘͝Y̲o̧͝u̼͆ ̯̎š̻h̪͗ö͎u̯͌l̳̓d̬͘ ͚̑h͓͒a͓̅v͇̐e̠ ̼̑l͕e͚̕t̟̋ ͉͛t̟̎h͔́e͈͝ ̛͚f̻́ö͔́r̘̒ḙ̏s̘̒t̟̄ ̗̊t̤͛a̱͑k̢̅e͎ ̢̋ÿ̱́o͓͒ų̄.̢̀_

Wirt cannot scream. He feels his center _tearing._

_S̬͝ǘ̬b̨͌m̘͊i͙̐t̅ͅ.̺͊ ͂ͅ ̞̉Ĝ̳i̦͋v̩͆e̩̓ ͕̎b̯̀a̱͠c̛̤k̦̃ ̞͝m̽͜y͍͠ ̾͜t̲̾h̳̾r͎̚ọn̽͜e̟̕.̤̑ Y̢̊o̭͝ũ͕ ̹͘d̯̋o͓̍n̠̑'̳͒t̥̓ ̳̂h͇̅a͓̋v̛̘ḛ̋ ̰͑t̝̃h͚̋e̩̊ ̼̿g̛̣ũ͇t̤̃s̻̑ ̛͈t̰̎o͝ͅ ̟̍r̤̍u͙̚l̜͠e̞̓ ̱̃m͕̂ÿ̳́ ̧͛w̪̌ö́ͅr̫̈́ľ̥d͙̈́.̡͛_

The first Beast sounds almost reasonable. As if he’s offering Wirt mercy, and not clawing the life out of him. If Wirt does what he’s told, if he _lets go,_ then the agony will stop and he won’t have to carry the weight of antlers and he won’t wake up every day missing Greg—

But if Wirt just gives up, then what was the point?

His incandescent rage floods the Unknown and next to this scorching fury the original Beast’s presence looks like nothing more than an ant hill. A speck of dust. The spears in Wirt’s sternum lance backward and release him. 

“_N͙̻͝͝ô͓̻ṯ͎̂͗ ͔̠͑͂y͕̜̓͊ơ̭̞̾u̩̝͆ř̘̲͘ ̺̲͋̉w͈̜̆̄ȏ͈̪̈r̖̟̎̑ľ̜͎̂ḓ͙̎͂ ̢͂͑͜a̻̣͑͌n̜͚̒̈́ȳ̝̫͊m̞̹̓͛ô̡͉͘r͉̤̎̃ȇ̡͂ͅ.̱̞̏͝_” _Wirt’s_ barbaric growl. _His_ eyes burning into his foe’s. His predecessor goes silent, withers…

And laughs. An amorphous unsettling chuckle that is maggots squirming on a carcass. 

_Ver̷y̶ weļl, P̷il̢g̶ŗi͘m͜..̢. I̼̥̻͇͖ ͏look ̡forwa̴r͝d͝ ҉to ̶watc͢hing̕ ̵y̵ou̢ ̶fal̸l͡._

🙞 ------------------------- 🙜

Wirt opens his eyes to a fathomless ocean of indigo studded in stars, uninterrupted by the interwoven branches of trees. A snowdrift pillows his back. He is out of the Edelwood forest and it aches in the periphery of his mind like a bone-deep bruise.

For a while The Beast (he admits it, for now, doesn’t flinch from this title) catches his breath. This field he’s ended up in is blessedly peaceful, idyllic in the way that nearly makes him think he’s just had a terrible nightmare. He pretends, briefly, that it was only a dream. There are no claw-marks slashed into his chest to prove otherwise. Not even a sliver of malevolence reaches Wirt where he lays to suggest that the murderous entity who almost stole Greg from him still haunts the Unknown. 

He fills his lungs with pristine night air. As he falls asleep—a restful slumber, this time—foxes stand guard, their grey-streaked fur tipped with starlight.

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus Tracks: "Odessa" by Caribou, "Shadowplay" by The Killers
> 
> I promise that the information contained in this story is relevant. I hope listening to Silas drone on wasn't too unbearable... but there's only one more vignette before we hop back to the present day with Beatrice and fam. I swear.
> 
> Happy Halloween to all you lovely readers who keep coming back for more punishment. Have a very spooktacular night!


End file.
